


Silver Lining

by tricksterity



Series: anything could happen [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: M/M, Sigrid knows whats up, family bonding time, the Bardlings meet Thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterity/pseuds/tricksterity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is well past time that Thranduil met Bard's children, and so the bargeman sneaks the elvenking into Laketown.</p><p>Sequel to "You Caught the Light"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Lining

“You know,” Bard said, rolling a barrel up to shore. “My children have been asking after you.”

 

The weather was cooling once again, faster than it used to, and the haze of mist that usually surrounded Laketown was beginning to form. Where the sun had once heated the air and made it shimmer, it now hid behind clouds as the green of the trees begun to fade to russet orange.

 

Thranduil, the elvenking, was seated upon a barrel of full wine, one of the rare deliveries through Laketown, one leg crossed upon the other. He wore no circlet or crown, and was dressed in shining silver robes. A soft smile sat upon his face as he watched the bargeman work, a shining silver and onyx sword at his hip.

 

“I thought you were the one who decided that my presence in Laketown would ‘scare half the folk to death’,” Thranduil said pointedly, his voice taking on a teasing note.

 

“Only because I know you would arrive in the middle of the day with a company of elves behind you and a crown upon your head,” Bard shot back, mouth turning up at the corner. Carmaderie and light teasing between the two had always come easy.

 

Thranduil was strangely silent from his position behind Bard, who frowned to himself, before a hushed whisper sounded in his ear, breath brushing his neck-

 

“I can be unseen when I wish to be,” Thranduil whispered, and Bard felt the slightest shiver make it’s way down his spine.

 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Bard replied, turning to see the elvenking not one inch away, arctic eyes gleaming and mouth smirking. “Though your pride and vanity is another matter.”

 

The elvenking took a gentle hold of Bard’s wrist, long fingers circling and running fingertips over the soft, thin flesh. Thranduil used the leverage to close the distance between the two, and Bard was overwhelmed by the sensation of being within a raging storm as he laid his own hand upon the elf’s hip. Thranduil’s lips were soft yet cruel, and for many of their shared kisses Bard felt as though he were just holding on whilst the world spun about them, until they finally pulled apart.

 

“Hm, I suppose you are right,” Thranduil smirked, eyes alight with arrogance. The elvenking knew exactly what effect he had on the bargeman, and delighted in it.

 

Bard pulled away with a frustrated, yet amused sigh, and returned to rescuing the barrels that sailed downriver. Though the job was just as menial as ever, it was tempered by the presence of the elvenking, who had not once been absent from the shores each week. He could not see Thranduil who stood behind him, but could almost sense his snide amusement as a palpable force.

 

It did not take Bard much longer to retrieve the barrels from the river, and then to carry them onto his barge. As the final barrel touched down, a mischievous smirk pulled at his face, and from a small chest he pulled out a drab, grey cloak, and turned to the elvenking.

 

“You know… I do just so happen to have an extra cloak on hand. Who knows what sort of people could sneak into Laketown undetected…” he trailed off, one eyebrow raised at the elf. Thranduil stared at him for a moment before his lip turned up and he stood before Bard in two strides.

 

Bard threw the cloak over Thranduil’s shoulders; it was long enough to conceal all but his boots, and drab enough that not a single figure would turn to see him. With the hood up, it cast enough of a shadow across the elf’s face that only a few strands of silver-gold hair told that he was not a man.

 

The push and pull of the rudder through the water currents of the lake were no more difficult than breathing to Bard, even in the growing autumn mists. They were nought but two lone figures in the fog. Percy at the gate did not even spare a glance at the second figure on Bard’s boat, and the two entered Laketown unseen.

 

Bard and Thranduil had not taken but two steps from the boat when Bard stopped suddenly, peering around a corner.

 

“The Master’s spies are watching,” he whispered quietly. “It appears they have finally noticed that my tasks are taking longer. Perhaps the Master believes I am planning to overthrow him.”

 

“If you were, there would not be much he could do to stop you,” Thranduil replied, smirking from beneath his hood.

  
“We can save the revolution for another day,” Bard teased. “You must follow behind me and not draw attention to yourself.”

 

Bard then strode smoothly about the corner and continued to his homestead as though it were any other day, and even he could not detect Thranduil’s presence from anywhere behind him.

 

Bard had long gotten used to the perpetual smell of fish that permeated the air and timber of Laketown, and weaved about wicker baskets of fish laid upon the ground as Thranduil had weaved through his own forests. A large catch of fish had clearly come in during the day, blocking the boardwalk that led to Bard’s home. Out of the corner of his eye, the Master’s spies crept closer, and Bard was sure that this was some sort of trap set by them.

 

He instead calmly sidestepped onto an empty boat that had been tethered to the pathway, and walked across them just as easily as he walked upon land. It was a technique he had learned some years back, as the Master’s spies and men barely left the solid pathways beneath their feet and did not have the water-knowledge of the people of Laketown.

 

Bard passed the blockade with ease, and was soon ascending the stairs of his home. The Master’s spies had given up by that point, as he could see them no more, and when he turned, Thranduil was behind him like he had never been more than a foot away.

 

Bard and Thranduil entered his house to see his two youngest children play-fighting with sticks for swords. Tilda was standing atop their rickety dining table, defending herself from Bain, who laughed whenever he was struck in the head with a walnut from the bowl at Tilda’s feet. Sigrid stood aside, laughing as she expertly sewed up a pair of Bain’s torn trousers.

 

Bard could not help but laugh, and was swiftly struck in the forehead by a walnut – his youngest had clearly inherited his aim.

 

“Children! Might I ask of you a ceasefire so that I may introduce to you our guest?” Bard asked. The children then looked to Thranduil, still cloaked, as though they had not realized another had yet joined them.

 

Thranduil pushed back the hood that shrouded his features in shadows, and Tilda’s makeshift sword dropped to the table. Her eyes were wide and awed. Bard’s youngest had always been fond of stories and tales, and no doubt she believed Thranduil had stepped straight from pages into the world.

 

“Da, is this…?” Tilda asked, trailing off as she could barely get the words out of her mouth.

 

“Aye, darling, this is Thranduil, my friend, and king of the Greenwood,” Bard replied, forgetting that he had not told his children that particular piece of information, and Bain’s jaw dropped almost to the floor.

 

“Da, you never told us that he was the king of Mirkwood!” Bain exclaimed. Before Bard could explain to him, Tilda climbed off the table and approached Thranduil, walking straight up to him until their toes were almost touching. She barely reached higher than Thranduil’s waist, and she stared up to him with eyes wide and curious. Then she reached up, though her small hand could not reach any further than the bottom of his collarbone, so the elvenking crouched down so that he might be at her height.

 

She then gently, although she were stroking the underbelly of a newborn kitten, reached out to trail her fingers through Thranduil’s long, silver-gold hair. Her eyes lit up, and Thranduil’s features softened in a way that Bard had only seen when he spoke of his own son.

 

“Da, he’s very pretty,” Tilda then informed Bard, as though she were relaying factual information, and Bard could not help the small laugh that escaped his lips.

 

“Be careful, Tilda, we do not want to encourage him _or_ his vanity,” Bard teased, and Thranduil’s lips pulled inward as his shoulders gently shook.

 

“If you’re a king, do you have a sword?” Bain asked, and Thranduil looked up from over Tilda’s shoulder to Bard’s only son. The elvenking looked up to Bard as if for permission, and the bargeman tilted his head in return. Thranduil then stood up from his position by Tilda and drew his sword slowly, as to not harm the children.

 

Bain’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the elven blade, silver and shining with blackened onyx patterns weaved throughout the hilt and further down the blade. The sword was crafted specifically for elven use, and anyone who was unfamiliar with the fighting style of elves would find it unusable and even useless in battle. The blade was straight down one edge yet curved out on the opposite side with the hilt reflecting the same structure.

 

“It is sharp, little one,” Thranduil warned with a small smile as he held it out on his hands towards Bain. Even Sigrid had stood and was looking at the sword, and Tilda had to step on the tips of her toes to see the blade. Bain ran his fingers along the flat of the blade, shivering slightly at the cool touch of it.

 

“I want one,” he then said to Bard, who laughed aloud.

 

“Perhaps when you are older, Bain, a bow is enough for now,” Bard laughed, an age-old argument between the two of them.

 

“But a sword is so much better,” Bain argued back, and Thranduil looked to Bard with his eyes light and eyebrows raised in amusement.

 

“My son, Legolas, has a bow of his own make,” Thranduil said. “He is one of the best warriors among my people.” Bard had no doubt that trickery like this would not work on Bain in a few years’ time, but now he was still young, even as Sigrid’s lips pulled up from where she stood in the corner.

 

“Really?” Bain asked, eyes wide and excited. Bard remembered how eagerly his son had sat next to him with Tilda in his lap as Bard told them the tale of how the two of them had been attacked by the bulbous spiders at the edge of the Greenwood. Bain was a curious child with a love of warriors and sword fighting, his mind often far off from the small lake that they lived on.

 

“Yes, he is unmatched by any with a bow, except perhaps for the captain of the guard. Since he was your age he had always been eager to have a bow in his hands, and would often escape through the forest to climb trees and practice his marksmanship,” Thranduil said, and though his language was simple, Bard could almost see a vision before him of a small Legolas running throughout the woods.

 

“Is he as good as Da?” Bain then asked, and Bard let out a laugh.

 

“I’m not sure, Bain, we might have to test that someday,” Bard said jokingly, but he could see an idea growing in Thranduil’s mind.

 

“I am also sure that if you were willing, Bain, he would quite happily give you some advice on your own bow,” Thranduil said, and Tilda squealed excitedly. Bain looked up to his father as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, and Bard smiled and gave a gentle nod, while running a gentle hand down Thranduil’s shoulder blade in a silent thank you.

 

Bain could barely stutter a thank you, his jaw opening and closing as though he were a fish, and Bard ruffled his hair.

 

“What’s Legolas like?” Tilda asked eagerly. Thranduil took a seat at their dining table, dodging a few of the walnuts that littered the floor, Tilda and Bain following him like lost ducklings.

 

“Legolas was always a curious child,” Thranduil said, and the deep and slow cadence of his voice immediately lulled them into the story. “Ever since he could walk he always did what he shouldn’t have, but not as a disobedient child. He was simply curious and fearless when it came to the world around him.”

 

Bard could see Sigrid smiling at the two youngest, who had already fallen under Thranduil’s spell.

 

“My forest was not dangerous back then as it is now. The leaves shone green in the sun all year round, and the sun glittered off them like emeralds. Many roots in the Greenwood are overlarge, and thick enough to walk on, forming bridges and archways. The trunks are tall and sturdy, and shelter many animals of all shapes and sizes, who do not fear my people,” Thranduil continued.

 

Bard stepped up behind the chair Thranduil sat on and rest his hand along the back of it, enjoying the sound of Thranduil’s voice, his words painting a picture in Bard’s mind of his own forgotten days of childhood where the Greenwood was not considered such a forbidden and terrible place. He now recalled the evergreen of the leaves, and how the entire forest had now darkened to russet autumn shades. The hues looked beautiful and warm to Bard’s eyes, but he now realized that it was yet another sign of the sickness growing within the wood.

 

“Legolas would run off into the woods for all hours of the day, climbing to the highest of the treetops and exploring without fear, for he knew that he would always find his way home,” Thranduil continued.

 

“So he never got lost?” asked Bain curiously.

 

“In a way he was always and never lost,” Thranduil replied. “He did not know the forest as he does now, but at the end of the day one of my people would go to fetch him, or a creature would lead him back.”

 

In the midst of Thranduil’s tale, Sigrid approached Bard quietly and turned to speak quietly to him.

 

“We must go to the market to buy things for supper, but I do not want to interrupt,” Sigrid said. Bain turned to look at the children, Tilda nearly perching herself on Thranduil’s lap in excitement as the elvenking spoke gently and with stillness, weaving such a mundane thing into a tale of beauty and excellence. He truly did not want to interrupt, not when both of his youngest were so enthralled.

 

“I am sure Thranduil can keep them occupied while we head to the market for a short while,” Bard said, knowing that Thranduil would be able to hear him. Without even pausing in his story, Thranduil nodded. Bard placed a warm cloak about his shoulders and led Sigrid out of the house with a few coins rattling in his pocket.

 

The market was not too far from Bard’s homestead, and he did not wish to be away from home for too long. He did not question that he had left his two youngest with the dangerous and feared elvenking, and did not think about why he refused to question it. He would certainly delve too deep into his feelings than he cared to at this point, having only known the elvenking for such a short few months.

 

“Thranduil is good with the children,” Sigrid said with nonchalance as they arrived at the market. Any newcomer would not recognise the market from any other area in Laketown – there was no large space where the people would sell their wares and food. They had simply set up small shops beneath the floors of the raised houses, stalls of fish and weak vegetables, the stocks getting lower the more pressure the Master put on their town.

 

“He is,” Bard replied. His eldest was observant and quick, and knew that she was leading up to something, though he did not know what.

 

“He seems much kinder than the rumors of him suggest,” Sigrid continued, browsing the stalls. She thoughtfully ran her fingers along the pots of tea leaves, eyes roaming over the small bundles of herbs and spices that were much harder to come by.

 

“The rumors were entirely true when we first met,” Bard replied. “Though he was less cruel and more annoying, if I am speaking truthfully. I think that he was interested as to what I would do.”

 

“You seem very interested in him,” Sigrid said quietly, not even gazing in Bard’s direction, and Bard tightened his jaw. He had hoped that his eldest would not see their relationship for what it was so soon. Sigrid was the only one of his children who truly remembered their mother, and Bard did not want to her to think that he was replacing her with the elvenking.

 

Though, he did not want to think that far into the future. He was still not entirely sure himself if he was just a petty interest to the elvenking. Elves lived long and immortal lives, and Bard wondered just how long it would be before Thranduil would tire of such a simple bargeman as himself.

 

“He is an interesting person,” Bard replied, carefully keeping his response neutral. At that, Sigrid finally turned to him with a smile on her face and a single raised eyebrow that she had most definitely inherited from himself.

 

“Is that all he is?” she challenged, and Bard sighed.

 

“I am not sure, Sigrid,” he replied honestly. “I am not sure how far it will go or for how long.” They were both silent for long minutes as they made their way through the market stalls, buying what they needed for their supper.

 

“You smile with him like you have not for a long while,” Sigrid then said, breaking the silence in a voice so soft Bard barely could hear her. “You smile the way you did with Ma.”

 

Bard could not think of anything to say to that, and the two were silent on their way back to their home, small packages of assorted food in their hands. When they opened the door, Bard was shocked at what he saw. They had barely been gone fifteen minutes and Tilda was on Thranduil’s lap, and he was expertly braiding her hair into intricate elven braids as he continued another tale that seemed to be about Legolas. Bard could already see the hero worship growing in Bain’s eyes.

 

“Da, did you know that Thranduil has an elk that is taller than our roof?” Tilda said excitedly as they entered the house. Bard thought of the huge antlers that had made up Thranduil’s throne, and smirked.

 

“I would not be surprised,” he replied with raised eyebrows, and Thranduil pursed his lips in a sort of smile. The two youngest were already enthralled with the elvenking, though Bard kept his eye on Sigrid all night.

 

She seemed both apprehensive yet content, smiling gently when the children excitedly rattled off questions to Thranduil. Their dinner was meager, but Thranduil ate a small portion politely, though Bard could only imagine how it would taste to one so used to opulence and delicious feasts.

 

Soon the sun set behind the mountains, and as Sigrid cleared up the mess from supper, Bard put the youngest two to bed, though he suspected from the light in their eyes that it would take them a while to fall asleep to dreams of forests and elves.

 

“I should linger no longer,” Thranduil eventually said as Sigrid bade them goodnight, and the elvenking took the grey cloak he had disguised himself in from beside the door. Bard made sure that the children were settled before he led Thranduil out of the house.

 

Bard shut the door behind them as the two emerged onto the steps before his house. The air was cool and the moon shone bright, the sky clear as the stars faded one by one into existence.

 

Thranduil’s hood was up, but the angle was such that the moon shone straight past Bard onto his face, lighting it up from underneath the drab material. Bard did not trust that the Master’s spies did not watch his house for all hours of the day and night, but at this moment he did not care.

 

Thranduil looked down at him curiously, his features softer than Bard had ever seen them, though there was still always a hint of sly pride about the elvenking. His lips were turned up into the smallest, most barely-there of smiles, and his arctic eyes glittered in the moonlight.

 

“The children like you,” Bard said quietly, so that any spies would not hear the words echo over the water.

 

“I am glad,” Thranduil said equally as quiet, and the low hum of his voice sent phantom shivers straight up Bard’s spine. “I would be in a rather difficult situation had they not. They are wonderful children, Bard, and you should be very proud.”

 

Bard smiled and took a step closer, finding Thranduil’s slim fingers beneath the long sleeves of the cloak, entwining their fingers to pull the elvenking to him. Thranduil’s lip pulled to the side as he leaned down to cover the remaining distance, and the kiss was soft.

 

It was not the hard, possessive and consuming kiss that Bard had grown fond of, but one that was soft and gentle but no less passionate. Bard could not resist pulling one of his hands from Thranduil’s to slide his fingers through the elvenking’s hair, to bunch it between his fingers at the back of Thranduil’s neck. The elf placed a hand on Bard’s waist and soon they were flush together, half-hidden by the hood that shrouded them both in shadows.

 

Bard soon had to pull away, but only a fragment, and felt Thranduil’s fingers tighten on his hip, fingertips digging gently into his skin over his clothing. He huffed a small laugh and smiled, and dragged his thumb across the side of Thranduil’s throat, his own fingers still tangled in the silver-gold tresses.

 

They were silent for moments, breathing in the feel of each other, enjoying the slight breeze that danced across their skin that was not cool nor warm but the most perfect of temperatures in the stillness of the midnight hours.

 

“It is late,” Bard finally said quietly, and pulled back to open his eyes to look at Thranduil. The elvenking too stepped back, but did not relinquish his grip on Bard’s hand as he looked up to the skies.

 

“Shall I keep the cloak?” Thranduil asked slyly, eyes lowering to meet Bard’s.

 

“Yes,” Bard replied, not missing a beat. “You are welcome any time.”

 

At his words, the elvenking’s eyes fluttered briefly, as though he was not expecting the answer that Bard gave him. For a moment his face was blank as he attempted to reclaim his emotions, before he gave a soft smile.

 

“I shall do my best to not frighten half the folk to death,” Thranduil replied.

 

Bard laughed, and pressed a single, soft kiss to the elvenking’s lips before the fingers slipped from his own and Thranduil was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this was kinda tame, I had planned on more exciting things happening but it just didn't quite fit in with the atmosphere. I'm planning for Bard, Thranduil, Legolas and the kids to all become a really close pseudo-family, and it's gotta start somewhere! There'll most likely be a timeskip between this and the next one though, which will hopefully be out not too far along the track :)
> 
> Also if Thranduil seems slightly OOC (like he's being super nice it's so weird) don't worry, we'll get there. He's a selfish man, and he wants to keep Bard, and to do so the children must like him. But that's okay, because he likes children too, and who can resist the Bardlings?


End file.
